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he, Liz, Alex, Michael, Maria, and Isabel had gotten in the habit of eating together. Of course, he would like anything that gave him the chance to spend a little more time with Liz. But that wasn’t the only reason. Being surrounded by people who knew the truth about him—and cared about him, anyway—was still an amazing feeling.
    â€œWell, hush my mouth. Look who’s come calling,” Alex said in an overdone southern accent.
    Max glanced over his shoulder and saw Elsevan DuPris heading across the quad, dressed in his usualrumpled white suit, white Panama hat, and white shoes.
    â€œWell, hello there, children,” DuPris drawled as he strolled up to them. His southern accent sounded almost as fake as Alex’s. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you would be so kind. I’m working on a story for my little paper.”
    DuPris’s little paper was the
Astral Projector
. It was Roswell’s answer to the
National Enquirer
. Except Roswell being Roswell, all the stories were about aliens. Max had never read an issue. The headlines were bad enough. “Alien Baby Melts Mother with a Single Kiss” kinds of deals.
    â€œTin sorry. I told my lawyer I wouldn’t talk to the press unless she was present. I’m always being hideously misquoted,” Alex said.
    DuPris ignored him. “I heard that something a tad unusual happened at the football game the other day. Something about a mascot behaving in a most peculiar way, almost defying the laws of physics. Can any of you tell me anything about that?”
    Of all the kids who were at that game, why is he asking us? Max thought. He told himself not to get paranoid. DuPris was obviously a buffoon. This was nothing to get in a sweat about.
    â€œThat was the Guffman mascot, not ours,” Maria told him. “You should go over there.”
    â€œI shall, I shall. But do y’all have any impressions for me since I’m here and all?” DuPris asked. He rolled his walking stick between his palms, twirling it back and forth.
    â€œI didn’t notice. I was too busy checking out our new football player,” Liz answered, looking right at Max.
    And Liz Ortecho delivers a crashing punch to Max Evans’s stomach, a little sports commentator voice in Max’s head said. He staggers, but he doesn’t go down.
    â€œIt was a pretty good flip. All of us cheerleaders were saying we should start taking gymnastics lessons to keep up,” Isabel added. She smiled at DuPris, her blue eyes open wide.
    That’s Iz, Max thought. Thinks a pretty smile is all it takes to get her way. And usually it was. Except with him, of course. Brothers are invulnerable to that kind of tactic from their sisters.
    â€œOh, don’t be modest,” DuPris cooed. “You’re a fine athlete from what I hear. Everyone’s talking about your performance at the miniature golf course.”
    Isabel stiffened a little. “Oh, pfft, that was just luck,” she said.
    Yeah, right, Max thought. It was totally obvious his sister was lying—at least it was totally obvious to him. Maybe not to DuPris. As soon as DuPris left, Max would have to ask Isabel exactly what her
performance
involved. Obviously something had gone on that he should know about.
    â€œI don’t believe in luck,” DuPris said. “Some people believe that we all have an angel on our shoulders and that’s where luck comes from. But I have a different theory.”
    Max tried to keep his face completely blank. Maybe the guy would take a hint that no one wanted to hear his
theory
and take off.
    â€œMy theory is that our luck comes from alien intervention. I believe there are aliens among us and that sometimes they give us a little help,” DuPris continued.
    Michael raised his eyebrows. “They came billions of miles to help us with
miniature golf?
” he asked.
    â€œWell, among other things,” DuPris agreed.
    The bell